


Fading Will

by millenial_falcon



Series: Lost Pages [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Established Relationship, Gen, Loss of Faith, M/M, Order 66, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 06:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8963845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millenial_falcon/pseuds/millenial_falcon
Summary: For Baze, faith doesn't diminish over time, it's something that is suddenly wrenched from his hands.





	

He understands, deep and unequivocally, that his faith is a weak, shallow thing the night Chirrut wakes them both with a bone-chilling gasp. Baze snaps conscious, on full alert, to the sight of his back hunched upright, bare skin catching the starlight filtering into their room, shoulders hitching. His breath is coming in wheezing, jerking little gasps and for one terrifying moment Baze thinks he's having some sort of fit. He scrambles up into a sit, grasping his shoulder, stomach dropping at the sight that meets him. In the low light he can see Chirrut’s eyes wide, his mouth and brow twisted in a desperate, horrified grimace. A sudden, full-body shudder jolts through him, shivering under Baze’s hand, and then Chirrut grasps for him, fingers digging into his forearm, another choking gasp tearing from his lips.

“What's wrong? What's happening?” Baze demands, keyed up and frantic. The only answer he gets is the sharp jerk of Chirrut's head, disconnected, as if he were trying to shake off whatever was afflicting him. Somewhere else in the temple a wail rings out into the night, sending a chill up his spine, and Baze has only just recognized it as one of the other adepts when an answering, choked off sob bursts from Chirrut's throat. The sound galls him and he slings a leg over Chirrut's, kneels above his lap, centers himself before him with hands on his shoulders. Shaking fingers reach out for him in reply, curl tight around his upper arms.

“What is going on?” he asks, low and pleading in his urgency. Over Chirrut's bowed head, his tense, shaking back, his ragged breath, he begs softer, “Please, _bǎobǎo_.”

Somewhere in the temple someone else is crying and quick footsteps clip past their door. Chirrut raises his head enough for Baze to see him gape for words, stop with a wince, anguish twisting his mouth. In the wan starlight, tears shine on his face. Baze moves to cup his cheek, watches another grimace twist his features.

“Please…”

“Dying,” Chirrut finally manages to choke out, making Baze clutch at him in alarm. “They're all- one after another-”

“Who?” Baze asks faltering, stomach clenching with shame for the small hint of relief that he was not speaking of himself. His breath shakes when Chirrut doubles back forward, presses his face to the inside of his arm, fingers digging deep enough to bruise.

“The Jedi.”

Baze stares in sinking horror down the bare line of Chirrut's bent spine. The gulping, ragged breaths Chirrut weakly pulls sear the small space between their bodies and his forehead presses fever-damp against Baze's skin. With the hand that had cupped his face, Baze lays a palm on the back of Chirrut's head, runs his thumb over his short-cropped hair, feels the shakes running through him.

“How?” he asks, voice wavering. Chirrut's only reply is a low moan. His hands slide down Baze's arms to hang from the bend of his elbows and Baze shifts, readjusts his posture to curl around him. They stay huddled together, Baze's mind racing with denial and negations and disbelief he can't commit to when Chirrut is shivering against him with the proof of it. Around them, outside of them, the sounds of the temple waking in chaos and confusion grow.

With a deep-body shudder Chirrut straightens, inhales slowly, pulls out of his arms. He casts out one hand, feeling around the distressed tangle of their sheets, and Baze tugs the nightrobe he seeks just under his reach. His shaking fingers curl into it. Baze watches him pull the robe around his narrow shoulders, a distraction from the slow-building nausea fomenting in his stomach, hyper-focused on the movement of his hands in the faint light as he folds and ties the cloth around himself. Chirrut rises quick, sudden enough to startle, and crosses to the door with such stiff-backed speed that Baze scarcely has time to tug on his own sleep pants before stumbling after him. The sight of Chirrut staggering ahead, gait unsteady even despite his palm on the wall, guiding him down the familiar path of the temple hallway, runs cold dread through him. He hurries up beside him, fingertips on the back of his shoulder, his touch making Chirrut jump alarmingly. He recovers, reaches up to lay his palm over the back of Baze's hand, keeps his contact as he leads.

They gather in the gardens, desert night air rustling cold through the Jogan trees. Several Guardians are already assembled when they arrive. Zalya, another adept, is among them, curled over her knees, head cradled in her hands and long hair unbound, curling in the dust around her feet. Chirrut moves straight to her side, places a hand on her shoulder, and she buries her face further in her hands with a muffled sob. They're not the last to arrive, but the few left to join them come trickling in shortly.

Whether by conscious choice or instinct, the adepts gravitate towards one another. They all move slow, visibly shaken. Tremors pass through their small group, flinches and soft, sad noises marking what Baze can only assume is another death. He doesn't know if being around one another amplifies the effect or provides solace. He can't feel what they're reacting to and his sense of isolation is amplified with each cringe or shudder of horror that passes through Chirrut, through the others around them. The connection to the Force he has always grasped for, always fallen just short of, seems walled off now, an absence that settles acutely in his chest, making room beside itself for creeping doubt. He clutches Chirrut's shoulder for the comfort of his warmth.

A sudden convulsion cuts through the adepts all at once, a ripple of motion through the crowd. Baze catches his hand flat against Chirrut's chest as he staggers, supporting his stunned weight. Zalya sobs and Chirrut grips at his shoulder, gropes frantically over his skin until his fingers find short locks of Baze's hair to wind around. His weight sags against him as he nearly doubles over and another adept moans.

“Chirrut, what-?” Baze gasps, low and breathless, staggering as Chirrut's legs go out from under him. The fist clenching at his hair pulls him sideways just a little as he grapples them both out of a fall, knee coming down just a bit too hard, compromising grace for stability. As he eases Chirrut the rest of the way to the ground, the other man hides his face against his bare shoulder, clutches at his hair tighter, quiet, shaking voice loud in the still night as he replies, “Their children.”

Baze sits down hard. His legs sprawl awkwardly before him. His scalp smarts with the yank of his hair, the pain a vague, distant sensation. Chirrut's forehead is a solid weight against him. He unconsciously curls an arm around his shoulders, tucks him up against his chest. Zalya is crying beside them and Baze’s eye is drawn by the motion of Chirrut reaching for her, pulling her in and wrapping his free arm around her. The three of them huddle together on the garden flagstones until one of Baze’s legs has gone numb.

The night passes slow, stars wheeling and twisting over the shuddering tension wrapped around their tiny cluster. Baze rests his mouth against the crown of Chirrut's head, eyes wandering carefully over their companions. He takes in the worn, tired expressions of the elders, the distress and confusion and grief of the others. Every time a gaze meets his own, he looks away, from looks desperately seeking solace, from the guilt of helplessness, from the flickering mirror of sudden emptiness. Eventually, Baze's eyes settle on the rooftops surrounding the gardens, on the vast, starlit void of space moving on above them. He buries his face further against Chirrut’s hair, closes his eyes, grounded by the scent of him, waits for the shuddering horror to subside in the other man.

When it does, when Chirrut collects himself with a deep inhale, drawing up straight, Baze eases back. He sees the wince of pain still tightening his features, the way his lower lip trembles on the exhale.

“Gone,” Chirrut says, voice soft and uncertain. Zalya buries her face in her hands beside them, nodding. “It's over. They're gone.”

Silent, mourning stillness settles over the gardens. Low, shaking breaths from the others around them, the tremor of Chirrut's shoulders under his arm, are the only things that betray the moment.

“As the Force wills it,” one of the elder Guardians supplies, and Baze watches the pinch of bitter sadness that flickers quick over Chirrut's face before he nods acceptance. Numb weight presses on his chest and he looks away at the ground, feeling the scowl curling his lip, wondering what will he has been serving that allows the slaughter of its strongest warriors. A rustle of movement draws his eye and he watches Zalya’s hands drop from her face to hang from where her elbows rest on her knees. In the low light he can see her slack mouth, the dead flatness to her eyes. She catches him looking, turns to him, searches his face silently. There is disbelief in her eyes, but it's cold, lost, a different kind of beast than the bitter fire kindling in his chest. She reaches for Chirrut's hand on her shoulder, squeezes it, pushes it away. Chirrut turns his face to her, lips parted on the verge of a question, but she draws away, stands slowly and leaves first, silent and closed.

Gradually, carefully, the other Guardians disperse. Baze stays huddled around Chirrut until he too stirs, pushing up off the sandstone with a waver that Baze is quick to compensate. They make their way back to their room in silence as the pale fingers of dawn are just beginning to creep over the desert. Both move slow and stiff, drained and numb. Chirrut sits on the edge of their bed, elbows on knees, hunched over himself with his face in his hands. Baze comes up beside him, runs his fingers through his hair gently, down the back of his neck. When Chirrut begins to pray, he draws back, turns away. Strong fingers catch his wrist, Chirrut's voice wavering, but he breaks the hold with little force, continues circling to his side of the bed.

He lays down too exhausted to sleep. As dawn steals soft light into their room, he studies the cut and wrap of the dark nightrobe around Chirrut's slim shoulders, his strong, slender back. He listens to his low, cracked voice repeating his mantra, trying to soothe over the horror of the night. As he does, Baze understands that his longing for connection has soured, his trust and faith in the Force has left him. In silent mourning, he accepts that he now has only room enough left in his heart for one source of devotion.

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno man...  
> I was just thinking about Chirrut and the Jedi Massacre, man...


End file.
